


All in a Heroic Day's Work

by aftersoon (notboldly)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Action, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, M/M, Meet the Family, Mission Fic, Pining, Romance, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-30 22:12:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1023980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notboldly/pseuds/aftersoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint meets his biggest fan: Phil's Coulson's niece.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my second of two stories for Marvel Big Bang 2013, and it contains art by [sevencorvus](http://sevencorvus.livejournal.com/), located [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1025159). Thank you so much for contributing with me!
> 
> Thanks to [what_alchemy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/what_alchemy) for the beta job (several beta jobs), and for the story advice. You're the best. :)

It was Natasha, as always, who found his gaze once the smoke cleared.

 _Are you okay?_ she mouthed, eyes darting across shadows even as she waited for his response. There was concern written on her face, mouth drawn tight and jaw clenched, signs barely visible underneath the dust of a concrete wall that had been standing just minutes ago. Clint would have been surprised by the obvious show if he hadn't been on the outside of that last explosion, if his ears hadn't still been ringing.

 _I'm fine_ , he didn't say, but he nodded and that was good enough under the circumstances. It was only after she turned away that he wiggled his toes in his boots, flexed his arms, and checked. Still in one piece.

Judging by the continued silence and the static in his ear, the other agents hadn't been quite as lucky as him. He tried not to think about what that meant just now. Losing focus wouldn't benefit anyone except the bad guys, and Clint was a little too resentful about the fresh burn across his hand to want to indulge that. The four men they were after might have been amateurs, but even amateurs could do harm with a gun or an explosive.

There was a glint of light to his left, and he instinctively ducked out of the way of the shot, half an instant behind Natasha. He landed hard, palms pressed against gravel and wrist screaming, just in time for the bullet to whiz over his head and hit the powdery wall. There was a wail off in the distance, panicked and high, and Clint placed it as coming from somewhere behind him, beyond the tentative shelter they'd found. He wasn't sure who had made the sound, whether they were a hostage or a bystander, but either way, they weren't S.H.I.E.L.D., and that meant they were in danger. Well, more danger than Clint or Natasha, at least.

When the latest round of firing stopped, Clint darted towards the scream while Natasha went for their shooter. Clint heard the distinct sound of fists connecting before he was too far away to hear anything, fifty feet and counting across the remains of the building floor.

He spotted the grisly mess before he noticed the woman shuddering on her knees, blood on her flowered top, and then he saw lucky perp number two and had other things to deal with. The baddie wasn't a big guy, but maybe that was the problem; they hadn't seen him coming, not compared to the three giants he was with. _This_ was the explosives guy, Clint would bet on it, and Clint's hand still stung, the skin cracking dangerously around his knuckles; the entire thing meant that he punched him harder than he probably needed to. It didn't take more than a few well-placed blows to existing injuries for Clint to send him to the ground, all five foot nine of him. It was only then that he turned to the woman hunched against her knees.

"Ma'am? Are you alright?"

"Daniel," she said in response, voice quiet, eyes fixed to the ground. Clint didn't ask; he was sure he could have guessed anyway.

"Ma'am, I need you to move, out those doors. Can you do that?" She nodded but didn't look at him, and Clint didn't—couldn't—give her anymore time. He turned his back, searching for perp number three.

He barely twisted in time to avoid the knife to the kidneys, and his elbow came up reflexively to crack the woman against the jaw. As it was, she only nicked him, but when she sank to the ground, Clint hissed in pain anyway. Five? There'd been _five_? He hadn’t spotted her, and no one had called it in from the perimeter; it was definitely not his day.

He didn't take the chance of missing something again, and he tied them both up, secure loops around their wrists, back to back against a still-standing pillar. The man was beginning to stir, and Clint checked them both for weapons, detonation devices. He didn't find any, but that didn't mean they weren't there; it was hard to tell, with terrorists, just where they stashed these things.

There was another explosion, too close to where Natasha's last position had been. He weighed his options in the space of a heartbeat before he ran towards it, bow drawn just in case; the remaining attackers had been armed with automatic weapons, last he’d seen, and if reflexes were all he had, he didn't want to waste the advantage. He ignored the fact that his fingers were starting to go numb, pain giving way to shock as his grip on his bowstring loosened. 

He saw the flash of yellow out of the corner of his eye, turned, and took the shot. He didn't know who was more surprised: him, or the woman he'd thought he'd tied up.

The bomb slipped from her fingers, flashing red, and Clint thought, again, that this really wasn't his day.

****

Catching the flight back from Tulsa was a pain, and the fact that checking out of medical had been the same hassle it always was meant Clint wasn't in the best mood by the time they'd sent him on his way. It was for the good of everyone, really, that Coulson was waiting for him just outside the door, calm as could be in his navy suit.

"You're looking pleased with yourself," Coulson said, not looking up from the open file in his hands. It was only then that Clint realized he was smiling, grinning like a fool really, his sour mood all but evaporated. He blamed the painkillers.

"As punch, sir," Clint replied, and he was rewarded with Coulson briefly looking up from his papers before he pushed away from the wall. Clint kept pace easily while Coulson walked and flipped pages with characteristic briskness. By now, Clint was well-used to this routine, to the step-flip-speak rhythm of a mission review straight out of medical, and Coulson didn't disappoint.

"Agent Barton, you gave an exemplary performance today. Guarez and Pierce will both pull through, thanks in large part your and Agent Romanoff's efforts," he said, and Clint couldn't help but look down at the nondescript tile beneath his feet. He'd never been good at receiving compliments, especially from Coulson. But compliments just for keeping other agents alive? He never wanted to hear those.

"Thank you, sir."

"You're welcome." Another flip, another drag of paper across paper, and then there was a noticeable pause. Clint didn't have to check to know Coulson had reached _that_ section. "It says here that there were some…complications with the arrest."

Well, Clint supposed that was one way of putting it.

"One of the perps was disguised as a civilian, yeah. She took a bit of a slice out of me when I ran into her the first time."

"How did you and Agent Romanoff handle that?"

It was phrased delicately, like Coulson didn't want him to implicate himself. Clint didn't say that there was nothing to worry about; they both knew mistakes happened, and that this one had been more the fault of intel than anything else. Still, it was hard to ignore that mistakes had been happening more and more, lately. To everyone.

"I tied her up. While I went to assist Agent Romanoff, she must have gotten loose. She went for one of the remaining bombs, and I took her out. Sir." Coulson waited, and Clint didn't sigh. "Agent Romanoff handled the three remaining men. Very efficiently, I might add."

"Thank you, Agent Barton. I'll be sure to make a note of that," Coulson said, his pen scratching lightly across paper. "Anything else?"

It was a very open-ended question. Clint looked down at nothing in particular, although his eyes strayed to familiar black shoes.

"No, Agent Coulson."

"Nothing about your hand?"

Dammit.

"The fourth blast injured my drawing hand, and I didn't have my other bow. My aim was, ah, a little off at the end." It hadn't made much of a difference. The fatal shot had still been fatal, even if death had come a little slower than it would have with a shot straight to the heart. It bothered him anyway.

Coulson stopped walking, and Clint's heart began to pound, stomach roiling with worry even as he acknowledged that they were right outside Coulson's new office. 

This could be the day, he thought. The day they told him to hit the road.

"That's not what I meant, Agent Barton." Clint looked up and met Coulson's calm gaze. "Do you need medical leave? You didn't ask for any."

The relief that hit him made him feel like a paranoid fool. Coulson wouldn't do that to him, and he knew that. Coulson might not have needed Clint quite as much as Clint needed him, but he respected all his coworkers, trusted in their capabilities, and besides that, they were practically friends. Well, as much as Clint understood "friends," anyway.

"No sir." Clint waited, but when no further questions followed and Coulson didn't dismiss him, he was confused. "Was there anything else?"

Coulson hesitated. There was no other word for it, not in Clint's vocabulary, and he wished he was better read. Coulson hesitating just didn't sound _right_.

"That's all for the mission, Agent Barton, but I wonder if you wouldn't mind doing me a—a personal favor."

Clint almost said "yes, anything, where do you want me?" on principle, but he managed to keep the automatic response to himself. He was pretty sure Coulson didn't mean anything sexual by the request, Clint's numerous fantasies aside, and that meant that Coulson was actually asking for something like a friend would. He'd never done that before, and Clint didn't want to miss the opportunity by deflecting with (painfully obvious) flirtation.

"Whatever you need," Clint said instead. He folded his arms to match his stance to the serious tone as much as to hide the bandage around his left hand and wrist, and he said nothing else, asked no questions. It seemed to be the right answer, because Coulson nodded and opened his door immediately.

"Come in, please."

Clint followed him obediently, taking in his surroundings with a quick glance. The same old chair, the same old desk. Most of the nonessentials were still in boxes, but several heaps of files and Coulson's computer were, of course, neatly unpacked. The coffee pot was plugged in and on the floor, because there was simply no room on any of the surfaces; it was all so very _Coulson_ that Clint had to hide his smile.

"Bigger office?"

"Smaller, actually," Coulson answered absently as he rummaged through a drawer. "Limited space."

Clint was pretty sure there was more to it than that, but he didn't ask. Coulson would tell him if he needed to know, he was sure of that.

Coulson wasn't telling him anything at the moment, which made it all the odder when he pulled a glossy _People_ magazine out of a plastic grocery bag, then handed it to Clint. After a few seconds of rummaging in a nearby box, he also gave him a pen.

"Would you mind signing this, Agent Barton?"

Clint smiled, an automatic grin to cover up the fact that he had no idea _what the hell was going on_. He could guess some of it; the magazine had the Avengers on the cover, and it was one of the few issues where he was visible at all. The rest, though, left him baffled.

"Don't you see enough of my signature already, boss?"

Coulson looked pained, clearly expecting the comment. He was also flushing a little around his neck, and when he sat down in his well-worn chair, it looked like a drop of exhaustion.

"It's for my niece, Evelyn. Evie. She's a fan."

Clint opened his mouth to say that was the oldest excuse _in the book_ , but Coulson wasn't finished.

"She's in the hospital for the next couple weeks. I figured the least I could do was get her an autograph."

Any thoughts of milking the experience for humor and blackmail disappeared, and Clint popped the cap off the pen.

"'To Evie Coulson,' then?"

"Evie Bennet, actually," Coulson said, smiling. It was the smile of a fond uncle, Clint guessed, and it didn't even fade when Clint asked him how to spell 'Bennet.' When he handed the magazine back, however, Coulson's expression became sad, something that was explained when he pulled out a padded envelope with postage already paid.

"Too far away to visit, huh?" Clint asked, instantly sympathetic. He could relate to far-away relatives (and the less said about that, the better.)

"No," Coulson said, voice clipped as he sealed the envelope with a jerky movement. "I'm just busy." It sounded all wrong, both the words and the tone clashing with the clearly loving actions. Coulson must have realized it, because his expression softened immediately. "Thank you, Clint."

Clint took a moment to let himself be distracted by the sound of his name, something Coulson used rarely, before he forced himself to snap to attention, to notice. The package was addressed to a suburb a fair distance outside the city, priority mail, for less than a few hours' drive. The hospital was probably even closer, but Coulson wasn't making the time for a visit, not even a short one. Considering Coulson had jumped continents for less, it made Clint curious.

He didn't ask, but he wondered.

****

Clint's curiosity kept its hold on him for three days, and he spent his waking hours valiantly resisting the urge to investigate further. He told himself it was Coulson's personal life, and Coulson hadn't asked Clint for anything other than an autograph. Sure, Clint hadn't _offered_ anything else, but when it came down to it, offering a comforting shoulder or a sympathetic ear wasn't really his place. Coulson must have had family (that he didn't see) or a girlfriend (on the other side of the country), and Clint was just…a friend at best, some guy he worked with at worst. Clint should really mind his own business, and he knew that.

It was hard to remember his reasoning, though, when Clint would walk through headquarters, pass Coulson's office, and see him looking _sad_ again. He hid it well—Coulson's face was a study in bland nonexpression, most days—but Clint had spent years watching him, on and off the job, and he was close enough to notice when Coulson wasn't himself. It had only happened a handful of times in all their years together, and Clint was watching for it now; of course he noticed, and of course he thought that maybe he could do something to help.

It took an invasion for Clint to find his excuse. Or, rather, the messy aftermath of an invasion; Clint was busy collecting arrows from the corpses of mad scientist-sized grasshopper-aliens when the subject came up in the form of an irate store manager who seemed to think that _Clint_ was somehow the most destructive member of the team. Clint didn't listen very closely, and he didn't listen at all beyond "property damage" and "hooligans" and "sue the entire damn city," but it was enough.

Clint didn't punch the guy because he’d been trained better than that, but he wanted to, and that brought up an interesting issue that he hadn't really considered before. Naturally, he bothered Tony about it.

"Hey Stark!" he shouted in the direction he'd last seen Iron Man zooming around. Whether he was flying for the benefit of the cameras or because he was trying to locate Dr. Banner before nude photos became a problem, Clint wasn't sure, but either way, it didn't take very long for Tony to find him. He landed with a crunch of asphalt and giant insects.

"You rang?" Tony asked, voice amused underneath the electronic hum of the Mark XIII. Clint shrugged and picked up another arrow.

"Just a question. We do PR things sometimes, right?"

"Jenny's department," Tony answered immediately, which wasn't helpful at all. 

"Could we do something soon? Like a hospital visit?"

Clint could practically hear the questions brewing.

"Sure. Which one?"

"I'm not sure." Clint had been avoiding looking for privacy's sake, but that made it a little harder to pretend he was doing this out of the goodness of his heart rather than for any particular person. "Do you know any that have an Evelyn Bennet in them?"

"JARVIS probably does." Clint waited; the search took seconds. "Evelyn J. Bennet, twelve years old, New York Memorial Hospital. Sound about right?"

Clint swallowed, because the more information he found out, the more he just felt like a creep. It was too late to back out now, though; Tony didn't let things go, and the curiosity would probably eat him alive.

"Yeah. Yeah, that sounds right."

To Tony's credit, he didn't ask questions immediately. Since Tony was about as built for subtlety as Clint was, though, the impulse was definitely there, and Clint expected the interrogation once Tony finished amusing himself with his own theories. 

Clint wasn’t looking forward to it, so he was relieved more than bothered when the battle was cut neatly to a close by the appearance of a familiar S.H.I.E.L.D. clean-up van. After months of seeing the same scene play out, Clint wasn’t surprised when the occupants poured out like performers from a clown car, dressed in brightly colored biohazard suits and looking all the more intimidating as a result. They brusquely shooed everyone off the street, but when they stopped in front of Clint, he just rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses.

“Collecting arrows, remember guys?” He held one up to make his point. “I’ll submit them through the proper channels and everything, honest.”

It was hard to tell with the suits, but Clint was pretty sure the agent in charge this time was Smythe, and she mostly liked him, or at least trusted him not to be a walking biohazard. Days like this, he was glad he was the sniper; heaven knew he wouldn’t like to be like all the others, freshly covered in grasshopper goo as a result of close combat. It might have meant he was removed from the action, separate from the team, but it did have its perks.

Except then Tony patted him hard on the back, leaving a sticky green handprint, and his removed role from the battle itself became a little irrelevant. Oh well, Clint thought. At least the decontamination procedure was enough to distract Tony for the time being.

****

Stark's PR department had the hospital visit arranged for the following weekend, with artfully drafted headlines and flattering articles sent to all the major newspapers in the country, only waiting for accompanying photos before the story would go to print. After that, everything was easy; the time off was approved with barely a murmur from S.H.I.E.L.D. although he and Natasha were a little sparse on their reasons, and the rest of the Avengers looked to be cautiously optimistic about visiting a medical facility under their own power, and for reasons that were only good.

Clint himself was torn between being impressed with the speed and nervous about the actual event, because honestly, Clint knew his strengths and weaknesses pretty well. Being a public figure was hardly his forte, and kids? He'd never been good with kids. At all. He could only be grateful that he was sharing the children's wing with Steve, and that Steve, as always, looked like a real-life action hero fresh out of the box.

Still, it didn't help the nerves, and Clint spent a good minute on Saturday morning entering and then immediately leaving New York Memorial Hospital.

Steve must have noticed that Clint wasn't behind him, but he didn't say anything when Clint finally met him in the hospital lobby. The others had long since split to their respective wings, leaving Clint and Steve to walk to the elevator, trailed by excited whispers. It wasn't until the doors closed behind them that Steve turned to him with a smile.

"Hawkeye? Are you all right?"

Clint put up a good effort at smiling back, but smiling on command was another thing that wasn't exactly his forte.

"Fine. Just fine." He focused intently on the doors in front of them, counting the beeps as they moved past each floor. "Do you think I can visit someone real fast? I'll catch up with you later."

"Sure. Of course."

Steve didn't pry and Clint didn't volunteer any further information, and when the elevator stopped at the children's inpatient floor, Steve turned right. Clint waited for a few seconds and then headed the opposite direction; he had gone exactly eight steps before he heard the squeals about "Captain America!" behind him, and he picked up his pace. He wanted to accomplish his self-appointed errand before he regained his senses, and he wasn't sure he had it in him to ignore a sick kid if he was recognized before then.

Clint hesitated just outside of room 1208, stopped by silence and nerves. Even though he couldn't hear voices, that didn't mean there wasn't a swarm of friends and family just inside. Coulson probably had a boisterous aunt and a doting mother, a father aged with laugh lines and a pile of siblings that couldn't stand each other every other day; he seemed the type, and it would just figure that someone as extraordinary as Coulson would have such average beginnings. Of course, in a crowd like that, Clint would stand out like a sore thumb, even before he was recognized. There was something daunting about that; he'd never liked spotlight in close encounters, not when most of his time was spent as scenery.

He gathered his courage and knocked anyway, the first few notes of a familiar tune. The answer was an instant "come in" from a girlish voice, her tone overexcited like someone just relieved of boredom. Clint took it as a good sign, and he introduced himself as he went inside, propping open the door behind him.

The room was a standard hospital single for a children's wing, the floors and walls tiled in yellows and blues, rather than clinical white, in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere. Unfortunately, the room matched the sheets and blankets on the twin bed a little too well, and the result was that the pale girl in the white hospital gown in the center of the bed was practically drowned out by her surroundings, with only her bushy, dark hair standing out against the colors.

"No way," she whispered, voice almost reverent, and Clint waved. Her eyes widened impossibly, nearly eclipsing the familiar blue. Not quite the same shade as Coulson’s, Clint couldn’t help noticing, but close.

"Yes way. I heard you were a fan, and Steve and I were in the neighborhood." Clint pulled up a chair, and sat beside the bed edge closest to the door. "You're Evie, right?"

"No way," she repeated, and Clint found it a little funny; clearly, she had more in common with her uncle than just blue eyes, but in keeping with Coulson-genetics, she shook off the hero worship quickly. "Yes, I'm Evie. And I'm your _biggest fan_."

Clint smiled. Couldn't help it.

"You don't look very big to me," he replied. It was an awful joke, he admitted it, but it was also not the first time he'd heard that particular line.

Evie countered immediately with "I am too!" and then she…blushed. Clint didn't get it for half a second, and then he remembered. Right. Twelve years old, and puberty. The only thing that made it more awkward was having your hero watching the biochemical warfare happening, and probably thinking about what a kid you are.

"Nah, I've met some really strange fans. You just seem like a nice young lady to me," Clint tried, and that at least seemed to do the trick.

"Yeah, I guess." She brightened suddenly, then reached across the side table to fumble with a smart phone boldly adorned with the Stark Industries label. "Can I have your picture?"

Clint nodded and obligingly scooted forward, just enough for the two of them to fit inside the frame. Evie gave a happy sigh, and Clint found it easy to smile, even though he’d never been a fan of pictures.

The camera clicked an alarming number of times before Evie seemed satisfied and Clint scooted away. Her expression said all her dreams had been achieved, which was both funny and oddly sweet. Happy, he made a note to tell Coulson. She was most definitely happy. Happy kid all around, probably; why on Earth she was _his_ fan, he couldn’t begin to guess.

"Do you want an autograph, too?"

Evie nodded excitedly, and Clint fumbled for the pad of paper on the nightstand. Evie watched him, chattering lightly while Clint scrawled his name across the watermarked sheet.

"My uncle sent me a magazine that you signed, but Gran took it away. She said it was probably fake." Clint’s hand twitched, botching the signature just slightly. "He's busy a lot. Probably too busy to stand in line."

Clint didn’t know what to say, because he couldn’t very well blurt out that Coulson, with his Captain America collection, would understand the deep blasphemy of faking an autograph.

“Some people are busy,” Clint finally said, “but I’ve been signing a lot of magazines recently. Who knows?”

Evie looked slightly mollified by the open-answer, and Clint hoped the suspicious “Gran” hadn’t thrown the magazine away. They sat in silence for a few moments after he handed the pad over, and Clint felt the weight of Evie’s expectant stare the entire time. It was unnerving in a way that facing bad guys wasn’t, and he sighed.

"Okay, I'll be honest with you. I don't have any special skills to show off, or anything." He scuffed his feet lightly against the tile, amending that almost immediately. "I mean, I _do_ but they don't really let you bring a bow into a hospital, and I wouldn't want them to. So, why don't we just…talk, for a while?"

Clint expected Evie to be disappointed, because he supposed he was still used to being the entertainment. Circus living was a little hard to let go of that way.

Instead, she looked like he'd just given her Christmas early.

"Really? I can ask you anything?" Clint nodded, game enough, and she immediately launched into questions. The topic surprised him.

"Where did you get your bow? Are you really the best marksman in the world? Could you teach me? Were you in the Army?" She leaned forward, hushing her voice. "Do you have a girlfriend?"

Clint laughed, and tried his hardest to answer the questions with something other than classified, no, and “I wouldn’t say _girl_.”

****

Clint was surprised when what he’d intended to be a short visit wound up being forty-five minutes of fairly rigorous questioning. That girl had ingrained interrogation skills, unsurprisingly, and Clint could only imagine what she’d be like as a full-blown teenager. He almost pitied her parents. Almost.

But by and large, she was a nice kid, shockingly interested in archery and as smart as the only other Coulson Clint had ever met. Somehow she’d even managed to talk him into revealing some of his purely harmless trade secrets, although he would deny it if anyone ever asked. He didn’t see the harm in teaching her the finer points of over-the-head paper ball in trash can shots, after all, and she laughed every time he made one although she wouldn’t try it herself. Clint didn’t blame her; if his eyes told him correctly (and they always did), she was immediately post-operation, and favoring one arm. He didn’t ask.

She was still laughing when he finished his final throw into the overflowing trash can, and he had just turned to take an exaggerated bow when her eyes widened noticeably, fixed on some point over his left shoulder. Clint glanced behind him in reflex to find three pairs of blue eyes staring at him with cautious interest. Coulsons, Clint figured—he'd recognize the look anywhere, and although they weren't exactly like he'd imagined, the resemblance was there.

"Well. I'm not sure we've been introduced?" It was phrased like a question and came out frostily from the mouth of a well-kempt older woman in a fitted suit. Her hair was cut short, just long enough to pull back into a short ponytail; the hairstyle should have lent her a more girlish air, but it did nothing to help with her severe expression. Clint smiled instinctively, and felt like it was rooted in self-preservation.

"No, ma'am," he said, but before he could offer up an introduction, Evie all but launched herself upright.

"Grandma! Can't you tell? It's _Hawkeye._ The _Avenger_."

The group in the doorway relaxed minutely, but stayed stiff enough in the spine that Clint pegged them all as ex-military. He also pegged them as not-Hawkeye-fans, which meant, hey, his worried imaginings at the beginning of this visit were at least half-right.

He resisted the urge to salute, waving instead, and the woman at the front unbent enough to shake his hand. Her grip was warm and surprisingly gentle, and Clint looked into her eyes and thought, _raised well, probably rich_.

"Hello, Mr. Hawkeye. My name is Charlotte Coulson"—Clint didn't smile, but he'd be damned if that didn't sound like a rich person's name—"and I'm Evie's grandmother. Thank you so much for visiting."

The words were right but the tone was all wrong, and Clint wondered what kind of minefield he'd just stepped into. He didn't think he'd made a bad enough first impression to warrant the undercurrent of hostility that was in the room, but it remained throughout the introduction of Richard Coulson (heavyset, bit of a paunch, had what Clint decided was "the Coulson jaw") and Darrel Coulson (add a few years to his face and he could have been Coulson's twin, which really made perfect sense when combined with Evie’s joyous squeal of “Dad!” once he came into view). To Clint’s surprise, except in the way they noticeably resembled the Coulson he was trying hard not to think of as _his_ Coulson, they didn’t resemble _Evie_ at all.

This was explained a little bit by the woman who appeared in the doorway just as introductions were ending. She had a lighter version of Evie’s hair, kind brown eyes, and she spotted him in her first sweep of the room. Unlike the rest, her response was to smile at Evie, a mother’s smile, before shifting the expression to him. It was hard to miss the way she didn’t look at the other three, and Clint couldn’t have been more relieved. Family troubles: not even in his ambitious, troublemaking teen years had he been to blame for _family troubles_. A minefield, then, but not of his making.

When she looked at him, he nodded politely, and tried not to look over curious.

“Ma’am,” he said, waiting. She looked like one of those women who wouldn’t fuss about the formal address, and he was right.

“Oh please, call me Annie. You’re Hawkeye, right? I’m Annie Bennet, Evie’s mother.”

 _Got it in one_ , Clint thought, and he shook her hand when she immediately offered. He was surprised by the calluses, but he didn’t put much thought into them. 

“Pleased to meet you, Annie,” he said with a smile to accompany the gentle handshake, and he watched the way a muscle jumped in Darrel’s jaw. “I hope I’m not interrupting a scheduled family visit, or anything.”

“Not at all,” Annie said with obviously forced cheer. The tension in the room ratcheted up another notch. “Evie talks about you quite a bit, and we’re happy to have you.”

Clint shot a smile at a red-faced Evie, and the distraction—minor as it was—seemed to be enough for them to forget he was even in the room.

“Sure,” Darrel shot back, voice low and tight. “ _Happy_. Just like you were happy about the ring, right?”

Clint directed all his attention to the curtains, honest, but the problem with good senses was that his attention was never fully anywhere.

“Darrel. Now isn’t the time to talk about…about this,” Annie said, her voice slightly more controlled than his but no less tense for that. “We have a guest.”

And that, obviously, was his cue to go.

“I can leave. It’s no problem,” Clint said, and all eyes shot to him. He saw them weigh the options, and he was relieved when they seemed to decide on the side of quiet fighting.

Darrel pushed away from the wall with a frustrated noise, tossing a quick “I’m going to go smoke” over his shoulder. Mrs. Coulson watched them all, but it was Annie who fussed with Evie’s sheets, excusing the entire thing in a small voice.

“Darrel’s just upset right now, Mr. Hawkeye. Sorry.”

Mrs. Coulson made a disapproving noise, and Annie fiddled with the blankets some more.

“Upset is one way to put it. You’re breaking a _tradition_ , dear.” The words, soft only in volume, came from Mr. Coulson; Clint was surprised, since he hadn’t pegged him as a big talker. “It’s only natural that he be a little tense.”

That was all Clint needed to get a picture of the problem, and it made everything so much more embarrassing. Not the sort of family conflict he’d wanted to have a peek at, and the fact that Evie was staring at her bed and trying desperately to look as uninvolved as him made it worse. Clint was…a little familiar with how petty arguments could escalate, and his hackles rose despite his best efforts to be nonjudgmental scenery.

“You okay there, kiddo?” he asked, because he had to. Evie shrugged, but Annie sent him a grateful smile. Behind him, the Coulsons were having a discussion about traditions that was getting steadily louder, a discussion Clint was more than happy to ignore, at least until they addressed him specifically.

“And what about you, Mr. Hawkeye?” The question was dressed casually, but Mrs. Coulson’s tone was anything but. Clint looked at her posture, and decided that she had definitely been an officer. “Working with Captain America…you must be familiar with the traditions of better times.”

Clint’s first instinct was to tell her not to involve Steve in whatever weird old-timey values she was trying to promote, but he bit his tongue. Coulson’s family, he reminded himself. No need to pick a fight with Coulson’s family. He was probably just misunderstanding them anyway.

Then he caught Mrs. Coulson’s hard stare, and he thought, _to hell with it_. He'd never have to see these people again anyway.

"I'm not really one for traditional values, ma'am, since I grew up in the circus and all."

The reactions to his announcement were comical on all ends, and Clint let himself smile wide, feeling right at home for the first time in hours.


	2. Chapter 2

Clint never made it to the rest of the children’s wing, but from what he gathered from Steve, his absence was hardly noted. Clint didn’t take it personally, because by the time he left Room 1208, it was past noon and he was feeling the effort of being (mostly) polite down to his bones. He supposed it was easier if you had family and were used to that sort of thing, to the half-talk that came with trying to keep the peace. He couldn’t be sure, though—everyone else looked just as worn out as him when they all made it back to Stark Tower, but it wasn’t as if any of them had a sparkling home life to disprove the point. It made him feel better, in a way.

He wasn’t quite so happy when he saw the Sunday issue of _The Daily News_ , front page plastered with a picture of him and Steve in the hospital lobby. The headline left no doubts as to why they were there, but it was unusual to see himself on the cover, whatever the reason. This time, Clint supposed it was Tony’s unique punishment for evading further questioning, and he resigned himself to all that came with it when he returned to work the next day.

Come Monday morning, nobody said a thing. Some of them clearly wanted to—S.H.I.E.L.D. was nothing if not a bustling gossip factory, especially concerning some of its more _colorful_ characters—but however much people looked at him askance or smiled a little as he walked by, nobody actually said a word that wasn’t “good” or “morning.” It was strange, and unprecedented.

Then Clint bumped into Coulson on the way to the break room, and he watched those few agents lingering nearby scatter. He figured he’d found his reason.

“Barton,” Coulson greeted, stirring the last single cup of French vanilla creamer into his coffee while Clint fought the urge to flee. “My office, if you don’t mind.”

Clint nodded glumly and followed, counting each second of silence as they walked. When they reached the door, Clint was the first one inside, and he plopped in the newly-added chair with as much bravado as he could muster. The chair creaked, and wobbled on clearly uneven legs.

“Aw, sir, a chair? You shouldn’t have!”

“Overflow storage from base,” Coulson said shortly, and Clint couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. It wasn’t a good sign.

Clint waited. Coulson sipped his coffee for one agonizingly long moment, then he sat down and pulled out a double folded newspaper from his desk drawer. It hit the desk with a noticeable thump, and Clint’s face stared back at him from full-color newsprint.

“I take it you had a busy weekend?” Coulson asked, voice warm, and Clint shot him a glance. He was taking another slow sip of coffee, but aside from that, the entire thing seemed almost normal.

“You’re not mad?” Clint asked, uncertain, and Coulson lowered the cup enough to almost-smile at him.

“I got a call at three a.m. yesterday morning because Evie was too excited to sleep. Of course I’m not mad.”

Clint almost laughed.

"Well, I’m glad she still thinks so highly of me. I mean, your parents were there."

That, it seemed, was all the explanation he needed to give.

"Ah.” Coulson turned his mug around in his hands, several times. “I can't imagine that went well, given your colorful background."

"I think I was buffered by their granddaughter's love, a little bit." Clint picked at his thumbnail, and wished for a coffee mug of his own to fiddle with. "I guess you don't see them very often."

"No, we had a bit of a falling out shortly after Evie was born." At Clint’s blank look, he continued. "They didn't approve of my life choices."

"'Life choices,' huh?" Clint said, voice a little wistful. It had never been a conversation he’d had personally, but he’d overheard enough of them, in the circus, in crowds. "This sounds like a 'coming out of the closet' conversation."

"It was," said Coulson, and his voice was so mild that Clint almost did a double take when the words registered. "Well, mostly. They didn't approve of leaving the military for something that looked like a desk job, either, but I think it was more the boyfriend that was the final straw."

"Boyfriend?" Clint said, the first thing he thought of, and then he winced. He sounded like some homophobic jackass, and that was so far from the reality that he couldn't blame Coulson for looking at little bit…sad. Ah, so that was it, or part of it.

It really made no sense to Clint, though, because Clint…Clint couldn't understand someone having a picture of Coulson on their wall and not being _proud_.

"Yes. His name was Lyle," Coulson said, almost gently. He shuffled some papers in the silence, voice deceptively light when he continued. "Is there a problem, Agent Barton?"

Clint couldn’t find the words fast enough.

"No. No, sir." He cleared his throat, trying to keep his voice from coming out a little desperately. "I thought you had a girlfriend, though? A cellist? Stark seemed to think so."

“Annie Bennet,” said Coulson, the emphasis very clear, “was a member of The Portland Cello Project. And in case it isn’t obvious, we were never dating, although we’ve been friends for a long time. I speak to her more often than almost anyone else in my family.”

Clint didn’t want to say the wrong thing again, so he tried to just nod politely, to look interested but not overinvested.

He could never leave something alone, though, when the pieces didn’t add up.

"Why are you telling me this, sir?" Clint asked, because Coulson never shared anything this personal, this private. Coulson was so immune to the S.H.I.E.L.D. gossip channels that Clint hadn’t even known he still _had_ a family. The openness of the conversation was, as a result, a little jarring.

"I find it easier to address assumptions about my home life at the beginning, rather than let them build from imagination," Coulson said, hands folded neatly across his papers and looking as serious as he did in any briefing. "Since you were curious enough to go investigating, I figured it would spare us both a little grief if I just answered your questions. There aren’t any state secrets here."

"I wasn’t curious." It was a lie and it wasn’t, because snooping hadn’t been Clint’s goal, not at all. Still, the truth was almost as awkward. "I just thought, since you didn’t have time to visit, I could check on your niece for you." Coulson looked a little shocked to hear his reasoning, but Clint didn't let that discourage him. "And she looks happy, by the way. Has more than enough pictures to build a Hawkeye shrine, too, if that’s even something people do any more."

"Oh." Coulson blinked a few times, and Clint waited, because the reaction could go either way past that surprised little _oh_. 

He was more relieved than he should have been when Coulson's response was a small smile, followed by an entirely sincere, "Thank you, Agent Barton."

"You're welcome, Agent Coulson." Clint shifted a little, carefully enough that the chair barely wobbled. It helped, he thought, to hide the nerves. "I do have one question, though, if you're still taking them."

Coulson looked more amused than offended, and this time when he picked up a paper, it was very clearly a sign that he was ready to go back to work. He humored Clint anyway, like he often did.

"Go ahead."

"Are you seeing anyone right now?"

It was stupid, so stupid, but when Coulson raised an eyebrow in surprise, Clint's heart couldn't help but give a hopeful _thump_ against his chest. True, Clint had never thought he actually had a chance with Coulson, flirting aside, and he still didn't think he had one now. But even so…well, there were superheroes these days. Was it really so ridiculous to hope, just a little?

"No. Why do you ask?"

"I know a guy. Good-looking. Kind of a smartass."

"I'm not interested, but thank you."

Coulson looked back down as he said it, and that was probably for the best. Clint's smile suddenly felt a little less earnest, a little more brittle.

"Ah, of course not. Sorry, sir."

Coulson glanced up, a familiar exasperated look underneath the smile on his face. Clint's heart flipped in his chest, and the sensation came so soon after gentle but unmistakable rejection that it made him a little nauseated, a little unsteady on his feet. Of course, that was probably the chair.

"It's not a problem, like I said." Coulson paused, like he wanted to elaborate. When he didn't, Clint told himself he had imagined it. "If that's all, you're dismissed, Agent Barton. I think Agent Pierce has a mission for you."

Clint nodded and gladly slipped away without another word.

****

Agent Pierce did have a mission for him, and unlike the last mission they'd had together, this one went perfectly from start to finish. Part of that, Pierce would note in his report, was because Clint seemed unusually focused on the task at hand, taking a normally excellent performance to the level of exemplary. Clint appreciated the praise because Pierce didn't give it lightly, but since Clint was also well aware of his own mind and the reasons behind his _focus_ , the compliment felt a little hollow all around. There was nothing admirable, in his opinion, in focusing on work to avoid looking at the dashed hopes of his personal life.

Of course, once he was off the clock and back on the familiar grounds of Stark Tower, there wasn't much else he could do besides look around him and notice how _empty_ his rooms were. He really should do something about decoration, probably, but he wasn't entirely sure that would help when combined with the sterile white walls. Maybe a new paint color.

He was debating the relative merits between yellow and purple when Natasha showed up, leaning against the door frame and dressed in a simple slip dress, bare of frills and jewelry. It looked elegant on her, but while it was a step up from the sweats she normally wore off-duty, it wasn't the sort of thing she would have chosen for a date. Clint wondered about the occasion.

She took one look at him before she set her little purse aside, and sat cross-legged next to him on the floor.

"I take it you're not going to dinner." Clint shrugged, because at least that answered his question: dinner out with the Avengers wasn't a formal affair by anyone's definition. "You know, you really should get a couch."

"Hey, Nat, what do you think? I was thinking sort of a yellow for this room."

"If you're expecting that to brighten your mood, trust me when I say it won't help." She nudged him gently with one sandal-wrapped foot, her nails painted the same light green as her dress. "Why the brooding? Pierce was over the moon when you got back from Pittsburgh today."

Clint folded his hands behind his head and shrugged, staring at the wall.

"I'm not brooding."

"You chose to lie in your empty living room for no reason?"

"I'm thinking about colors."

They sat in silence for a moment.

"Definitely yellow," Natasha finally said, breaking the silence. "At least it's easy to match furniture to." She shifted until she was lying even with his view. "Now, why are you brooding?"

Clint smiled, mostly because he couldn't help it. A reflex, as always, when faced with Natasha's completely awkward love for him and the few she counted among her friends.

"I might have made a mistake." He licked his lips while he thought how to phrase it, since it was clear that just not telling her was hardly an option. "I hit on Coulson." Well, close enough.

Natasha hummed thoughtfully.

"More than the usual flirtatious banter, I take it." Clint nodded glumly. "What did you say, exactly?"

Clint told her, minus the introduction to the comment. It wasn't his place to out Coulson, even if Natasha already knew (and she might have.) He was expecting her response to be something to the tune of him needing to be more forward, because that was the approach that worked for her, and with good reason.

What he wasn't expecting was for her to close her eyes, fond frustration written all over her face.

"Clint. _Clint_. Only you would think those were your best qualities."

"I didn't say that," Clint said, a little defensive. He hadn't…but he realized that maybe he'd implied it. Funny how he hadn't considered that, before.

"That's exactly my point. Next time, try saying 'good looking, smartass, world's best marksman, _in love with you._ ' You might be surprised by the response."

Clint considered it. He could almost see what she meant. Maybe.

"Do you really think that would help?"

"I don't know," Natasha said, absolutely honest. Clint's renewed hope withered slightly. "But I do remember that immediately after the Tulsa mission, Coulson asked you how your hand was three times, and harassed medical when you weren't around. And he's always liked you."

"He's also thorough, and I'm a sniper. It would have been a problem if I couldn't use my hand."

Natasha rolled her eyes, and she looked younger than usual, younger than she actually was.

"You might be right," she said, although her tone said she doubted that. "But you should talk to him, just to be sure." She smiled at him, but her voice was even and professional when she continued. "We're spies, Clint. Our business is being sure."

Clint could admit she had a point, even if he only admitted it to himself.

"Okay." Which meant, in the grand scheme of things, that he promised exactly _nothing_. "Don't you have a dinner to go to?"

She shimmied to her feet with the sort of grace only Natasha or experienced gymnasts could pull off.

"I almost forgot." She shook her head at him, clearly blaming him for the lapse, but her eyes softened noticeably before long. Probably on purpose. "Don't stay there all night, all right? I'm headed to Yangon in the morning, and I'd like to think you're not going to injure yourself before I even leave."

Clint snorted and said he wouldn't, and then she left, gone as quickly as she'd come. He wondered what she'd think when she realized she'd just handed out love advice, and for a while, the image entertained him. Only Natasha could be good at something she claimed to have no interest in.

She _was_ good at it, though, and that was the one thing that kept him from dismissing it out of hand. Just talk to him, Nat had said. The simplicity of the idea almost brought a smile to his face.

Yeah, he thought. Like it's ever that easy.

****

Natasha spent five days in Yangon before she hopped a plane back to headquarters, and Clint didn't see her even in passing; four hours after she left, he was on his way to Odessa, in the sort of awful coincidence that he saw all too often these days. It wasn't as bad as it could have been; Clint was on his own rather than as backup for a strike team, and the sorts of missions that could be handled from a distance almost always went smoother. Plus, the agent overseeing the operation was _Coulson_ , and all awkward half-confessions aside, there were hours of fun to be had bemoaning a location that neither of them had any control over. Because Coulson humored him, Clint almost forgave him for looking perfect in an unusually nice gray suit, a perfectly professional expression on his face even as they talked about a mission that frankly didn't seem worth a twelve hour flight.

"There weren't any agents closer? I hate Odessa, honestly."

Clint heard the scratch of pen on paper while Coulson jotted out a quick note, and Clint bit his lip to keep from smiling.

"Your complaint has been noted, but making a move against Demyan Belenko requires our best." Coulson flipped the page of an overthick file, covering his slight pause. "It says here that Belenko has a wife and two children, and he rarely goes anywhere without them."

"Children, huh?" Clint sighed, because he knew what that meant, in this business. Serious emotional scarring minimum, possible new enemy bent on revenge created as a worst outcome. "Coulson, that sucks."

"I know. Unfortunately, single, childless people don't have the monopoly on murder, kidnapping, or human trafficking." Coulson held out a sheet of paper, nearly covered with small black print. There was a photo pinned at the top. "I have a list of his infractions, if it will make you feel any better."

"It won't," Clint said, but he took it anyway. He studied the photograph for what felt like hours (probably was hours) memorizing each pixelated wrinkle or mole or hair on Belenko's face. When he could stare at it no longer, he read the list of itemized sins and misdeeds, and felt like S.H.I.E.L.D. probably should have ordered this hit a long time ago. But that, really, was one of the questionably good things about S.H.I.E.L.D.; they didn't leave power voids. If there hadn't been an ambitious second-in-line ready to step up at the first sign of conflict, they probably wouldn't have sent Clint out at all.

"Well, boss, it looks like an easy one. Get in, get out. No recon work?"

"None needed. Our intel says he'll be at a party an hour after we arrive, and we already have a position on the building next door. We should be there less than two hours total."

Clint snorted, because he knew how _should_ had a way of becoming only a theoretical option. Coulson shot him a look that said he agreed completely, but that Clint could stand to be a little more professional. Clint grinned in response, and kept up what he hoped was lively chatter for an agonizingly long time. Nobody got a wink of sleep, he was pleased to note, and Coulson looked less than a few hours away from putting him in a sleeper hold by the time they hit the Ukranian border.

Landing in Odessa was slightly bumpier than it had been on previous missions, and Clint was certain that was because they hadn't let him fly. He didn't resent them too much, however, because his fingers felt strange enough on the rifle he'd been issued without spending hours gripping the airplane controls beforehand. He couldn't help but laugh when Coulson handed him an attachable scope.

"A scope? Really, Coulson? I'll be across the street."

Coulson didn't withdraw the offered piece.

"Given the possible outcomes of this mission, the Director wanted you to have all possible options."

The reality of what Coulson meant (hitting a non-target, a _kid_ ) quieted Clint's laughter, and he even accepted the scope, as unnecessary as it seemed.

Sitting up on the roof, behind a dramatic statue and perched in an uncomfortable half-crouch, he wondered if he hadn't made the wrong choice. The scope did make things easier, but if there was one thing he'd learned as a sniper, with bow or gun, you didn't focus on someone unless you were prepared to shoot them. A scope was limiting, and that meant that he saw some things out of the corner of his eyes, images not at their best. Belenko, for instance, was flanked by three women, one clearly his wife, the other two clearly his young daughters. It was unnerving to see the two girls, near identical, as shapes in white party dresses with dark braided hair.

Dark hair, white dress. Clint wondered where he'd seen that before, and then he tried desperately not to wonder.

"Barton, do you have the shot?"

Clint swallowed, and it was audible over the comms. Of course he had the shot; Belenko was right there, marked by the cross hairs of his scope, framed by an open window. Surrounded by his family.

"Permission to wait, sir."

"Granted." Coulson's reply was instantaneous, which Clint appreciated. He was probably no more eager to carry off an assassination in a crowded ballroom than Clint was, and Clint respected him enough to know that his reasons had nothing to do with the success of a mission.

Fortunately for the tension in Clint's shoulders, Belenko must have had a small bladder; after sucking down two glasses of wine, he retreated to the men's bathroom, far away from his wife and daughters and empty except for him. It wasn't as good of a shot; the window was smaller and unopened, and Belenko was only visible for a second behind plated glass, but it was enough.

Belenko dropped to the ground out of sight an instant after the bullet punched through glass, and Clint waited one breath, two. No reaction, no movement. He could see blood on the glass, even without the scope.

"Clean shot, sir. No reaction from the party guests or security."

"Good. Get out of there, Barton."

Clint didn't need to be told twice, and he ducked down low despite the fact that no one could see him, hidden as he was by shadows. He disassembled his weapon and put it away, surprised to find his fingers stiff and almost uncooperative. That was new.

It wasn't until he was back on the ground and headed towards their plane that he remembered that little Evie Bennet had worn a white hospital gown with her dark hair, and the realization nearly made him stumble.

****

Clint was silent on the flight back except when Coulson asked him specific questions, and those he answered with a terse tone. It was difficult keeping quiet for half a day, but Clint found the sleep that he'd been avoiding earlier, and Coulson sensed his mood enough not to bother him when he curled up in his seat. Clint saw him frown before he turned over, puzzled expression marring his face, but when he closed his eyes, he forgot all about that, about everything. 

When he woke up, they were still two hours away from base, but he felt better. He wondered what that said about him, that it took only ten hours before he was back to smiling and joking, as if he'd left the reality back in Odessa. He wondered what it said about Coulson that he seemed more concerned than relieved to see his rapid change in mood. Whatever it might have said about them, Coulson didn't say anything other than to ask if he was hurt, and to request that Clint have his report filed within the next three days. It was one day longer than Coulson usually allowed, and Clint's responses, respectively, were "how on Earth would I get hurt taking the stairs" and "you're so generous, sir." He felt like he oversold it, but Coulson just nodded and said nothing else, letting him leave without a word as soon as they landed.

Clint took the stealthy way up to his rooms when he got back, retreating to his newly acquired couch to stare at the plain walls a second time. The couch was a hideous thing, all overstuffed cushions and horrid paisley print, but Natasha was right; yellow would probably match best, because heaven knew he couldn't abandon the couch.

He must have drifted off, because the next thing he knew, the clock said two hours had passed, now well past midnight, and there was a knock on his door, loud and insistent.

"All right, all right! Christ, Nat, I'm coming!"

He had taken three steps before he remembered that Natasha didn't knock. That, in fact, Clint had asked her not to. It made him step more lightly, because as far as he knew, no one should've known he was back, considering how careful he'd been to avoid even passing contact with the other Avengers.

He tried not to be surprised when he opened the door to see Coulson standing there, but he couldn't help it. Coulson had never visited him at home, not when he'd been at the S.H.I.E.L.D. barracks, not when he'd been at his crappy little apartment, and certainly not now that he was living in Avengers Central. 

Clint wondered, sadly, if Coulson had the wrong floor. Or at least he did until Coulson nodded at him, smiling faintly.

"Clint." And dammit, dammit, but Clint's heart still jumped a beat. "Do you mind if I come in?"

Clint realized then that he was practically barricading the doorway, and he hurriedly stepped aside, watching Coulson take in the nearly-bare surroundings as he came in. Clint rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, a little embarrassed to be living in what might as well have been a cardboard box for all the character it had.

"Yeah, sorry. I've, uh, been thinking about re-decorating."

"Clint, I didn't come here expecting something from Better Homes and Gardens." Coulson paused again, and Clint would have said it was hesitation, again, except Coulson didn't do that. "The truth is, I'm concerned about you."

"There's nothing to be concerned about," Clint said automatically, and Coulson pursed his lips, folding his arms neatly behind his back as he did so. Parade rest, Clint noted with some amusement.

"Be that as it may," Coulson conceded, which wasn't a concession at all. "You haven't been yourself since we left Odessa. If there's anything wrong—"

"It's nothing to do with the mission, I promise. And I'm not injured."

Coulson huffed, looking torn between annoyed and amused at the interruption. "That's not what I asked."

"Well, technically, you didn't ask anything."

"Clint, if you don't stop interrupting, I'm sending you to New Delhi."

Clint mock winced, because the threat, as far as threats went, was good. He hated New Delhi. Hated the air.

"Harsh, sir." Clint crossed his arms in front of him, and he tried to look like his defenses weren't up. "You were saying?"

"Is everything all right? Both professionally and personally? As your friend, I'd like to know that you're all right."

It was phrased very neatly, Clint had to give him that. He'd called Clint his friend so casually, as if there were no other option even though Clint sometimes agonized over that very label. He had to appreciate that.

Clint almost said "I'm fine." Almost. But then he looked at Coulson standing in the middle of his near-empty room, and the lie wouldn't happen.

Clint sat heavily on a lump in the couch, sighing as he did.

"I don't think I'm cut out to be a hero, Coulson." Admitting it helped, but not quite as much as the look on Coulson's face. "I mean, in general. Not just as an Avenger."

Coulson relaxed very minutely; clearly, he hadn't been expecting this at all. Clint wondered what he _had_ been expecting.

"I'm not sure I understand you, Clint."

"What's to understand? I kill people for a living. Even if they're bad people, and even compared to the rest of the team. There aren't that many non-lethal arrow wounds, and I can't fight with a shield or a hammer or frickin' energy beams." Clint looked at his hands, mostly because he couldn't find it in him to keep meeting Coulson's eyes. "I mean, a kid would have to be crazy to idolize _me_."

Clint swore he could hear the moment Coulson understood, a ringing in the silence of everything falling into place. What Clint couldn't hear, however, were Coulson's footsteps on the carpet, and he didn't know he'd even moved until Coulson was sitting next to him on the couch.

"Clint," Coulson said quietly, "you do realize you can ask to be removed from the Avengers."

Clint hunched into himself just a little.

"Yeah. I know."

"And you do realize, don't you, that all the propaganda about Captain America had him killing Nazis?"

It seemed a bit off-topic, and Clint looked up to find Coulson watching him. Clint felt like he'd been avoiding his eyes for days, but they were the same as they always were, because Coulson believed in him. It grounded him.

"Yeah."

"Then take it from a fan: the killing was never the important part of being a hero, one way or another." Coulson sighed and folded his hands across one knee, fingers pressed to seams. "Clint, you're honest, and you're not ashamed of yourself. You don't buckle under peer pressure. You have a sense of humor when other people would find it hard to laugh. You're brave, but you understand the importance of running away to regroup. In short, there are a million reasons to find you heroic and admirable, and not one of them has to do with shooting far or catching the bad guy." Coulson smiled at him, and Clint just stared. "Frankly, I wish more kids idolized you. As far as I can see, they'd only gain something positive from the experience."

Clint felt like he couldn't breath, and something bloomed warm and full in his chest.

"Careful there, Coulson," Clint said, voice soft. "People might start to think you like me."

"I'd be lying if I said I didn't." Coulson looked away then, towards the wall, but he still smiled. "Don't get a big head."

"Hey, Coulson." Coulson looked at him, and Clint felt brave. "Why _don't_ you date?"

He was treated to another eyebrow raise, because yeah, Clint could admit that the question came out of nowhere. But, he figured, it was now or never, because Coulson…Coulson _liked_ him.

"Why does it matter?"

"I know a guy." Coulson closed his eyes, looking on the edge of tolerance, but Clint continued. "Good-looking, smartass, sniper." It was at the last that Coulson looked at him in surprise, but Clint forced himself to continue. "Pretty much your biggest fan."

Clint waited, and watched as Coulson bit his lip.

"That a fact?"

"Oh, definitely." Clint cleared his throat. "So. What do you think?"

"I think," Coulson said, slowly, "that I should probably be asking you if you want to have dinner."

Clint smiled as widely as he could.

"How do you feel about breakfast?"

Coulson just laughed.


	3. Chapter 3

Coulson didn't take him up on breakfast, but considering he did ask him to dinner for that Friday, Clint found it an acceptable compromise. Or at least that's what he'd say if he suddenly found himself in a room with the weirdest Hydra interregators of all time. Truthfully, Clint found the prospect of a dinner _with intentions_ , with Coulson, to be only somewhat less daunting than training new recruits in archery while blindfolded. The fear wasn't Coulson's fault, and it wasn't something Clint was prepared to admit, so he'd agreed with a joy that was nonetheless entirely unfeigned.

It wasn't that he didn't want to date Coulson. There was nothing he wanted more. But Clint was someone mostly used to reality, and the reality was that Clint had botched most of his attempted relationships in record time. He could have handled sex. Clint was good at sex. He could've even handled breakfast. Maybe he would've made pancakes. But dinner? A definite date? There were more than a few places he could screw up when the rules of dating were so neatly established, and the prospect seemed so unthinkable that it made him feel a little cowardly.

Clint knew how to push through cowardice, though, and so he pushed on. He went into work the next day with a big smile on his face, a perfect report in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, and he ignored all the strange looks he received. He figured he'd just made the papers again, courtesy of Stark.

It was only after he was knocking on Coulson's door that he realized, far too late, that he was technically off today. It gave the rhythm of his knocks a slight stammer, but Coulson heard it anyway.

"Come in." Clint popped his head in, and Coulson immediately put down his pencil. "Clint? What can I do for you?"

Clint waved the report at him, mostly to distract from the surprise that he'd apparently been upgraded to _Clint_ on a more than occasional basis, and that the change made him a little overheated.

"Have a mission report for you, if you have a minute." Coulson gestured him in, and Clint closed the door, belatedly noticing the new addition to the room. "What happened to the chair?" In its place was a long brown couch that could have politely been called 'well-used.'

Coulson looked torn between amusement and his usual sense of professionalism.

"It seems that several people couldn't manage your balancing act. Imagine my surprise." Clint couldn't help a smile, and Coulson drummed his fingers against his papers, clearly a half second from joining him. "But now that the matter of my furniture choices has been covered, let's see that report."

Clint handed it to him, and Coulson skimmed it before setting it aside.

"That looks fine. It's also two days early, and that's commendable." Coulson folded his hands patiently, and Clint immediately sat down out of habit. The couch felt like cardboard. "Now, what can I actually help you with?"

Clint opened his mouth, paused, and then closed it. Coulson's lips twitched into a smile, causing Clint to let out a strained chuckle as he ran his palms over his knees.

"I swear I wasn't going to make an innuendo. Honest."

"I'll believe it when I hear it."

Clint widened his eyes in faux innocence. "That hurts, Coulson. That really hurts."

Coulson gave him a bland smile, hands folded neatly across his desk, and it was just like every mission briefing, every report review they'd ever gone through. Clint felt like the words stuck in his throat were made of cotton, suffocating him.

"Can I call you Phil?" he asked, far too quickly.

Coulson's mouth went mometarily slack with surprise, something Clint would have counted a victory on any other day. Today, however, he was too hung up on his answer, and he felt the tension beating a pulse against his spine.

"Of course you can. Did you think you couldn't?" Coulson asked carefully, and Clint felt like he shouldn't nod. He nodded anyway, and Coulson's eyes went soft. "Clint, we've known each other for over a decade. You could have called me by my first name years ago."

"Really? That's okay?"

As Clint expected, the statement was quickly amended.

"Outside of immediate work and missions, yes." Coulson tapped the papers on his desk with unusual focus. "Of course, I assumed it was a personal preference that you didn't. Before Natasha, at least, you never called anyone by their first name."

Clint wasn't so sure he wanted to separate his life into sections before and after Natasha, and he rushed to cut off the statement. His words weren't chosen as carefully as they should have been.

"Yeah, well, that's because I love her." Coulson's eyebrows pushed the edge of his receding hairline, and Clint nearly swallowed his tongue. "Er. I mean…that's probably too much information, right?" _Too soon_ , he didn't say, but Coulson usually heard the words he couldn't bring himself to say out loud, and Clint had no doubt he heard them this time as well.

When Coulson didn't say anything, Clint felt small.

"We can just ignore that, right?" Coulson shook his head mutely, and Clint resisted the urge to scrunch lower into the couch.

"Clint." Clint looked up, and Coulson waved him closer. "Come here, if you please."

Clint stood and approached the desk cautiously, only to be rocked back on his heels when Coulson surged upwards, capturing his lips with perfect precision. Clint, always fast on the draw, returned the kiss with enthusiasm, clenching his fingers hard into the lapels of Coulson's suit coat. Coulson made a sound almost like a growl, the fierce sound in direct opposition to the gentle way his warm hand cradled Clint's skull, and the entire experience left Clint dizzy and gasping for air when they separated. One kiss. It had only been one _brief_ kiss.

Clint wasn't complaining, but he was confused. Coulson noticed and shook his head, a disbelieving smile on his lips. 

"Clint. Don't tell someone you love them, and then act surprised when they kiss you."

"Hey, I said I loved _Natasha_. Where do you think you fit into this?"

"I have my suspicions," he said mildly, and when he pulled away completely, he looked cool and professional. Clint was one hundred percent sure he looked _wrecked_ , and the contrast was both unsurprising and completely hot.

He swallowed hard in the silence, and Coulson _went back to his paperwork_.

"Friday, right?"

"Friday," Coulson— _Phil_ —confirmed, a smile still on his lips, and Clint barely refrained from going back for more. Phil didn't look like he'd be opposed to it either, and Clint knew he had to leave before his sanity was at stake.

It took all his willpower to scramble for the door, and all his presence of mind to pull it shut behind him.

****

Friday's dinner was more like Friday's last minute rations as he ran out the door, and although it wasn't exactly S.H.I.E.L.D.'s fault, Clint couldn't help blaming them anyway.

"Seriously? A terrorist is threatening the country right _now_?" It figured, just like it also figured that the call would come in right as he was getting ready to head home after an uneventful day in the office.

Hill looked entirely unimpressed by his bellyaching, but then as far as Clint could tell, Hill was unimpressed by most things, including but not limited to his driving and his outfit's color scheme.

"Think of it as a public service. One terrorist down, six billion potential terrorists to go."

"Dammit, Hill. I had a hot date, you know."

"So did I." She gave him a look that dared him to make a comment about that, and Clint, as usual, took that dare.

"Five bucks says mine's hotter."

"You'd lose."

Clint opened his mouth to argue and Coulson sighed, leaning forward from the back seat enough to get between them.

"Is this really the conversation we need to be having right now? And it's a left here, Clint." Clint took the turn, tires screetching and van barely on all four wheels. It was a testament to S.H.I.E.L.D. training that none of them batted an eye. "Also, Maria wins—it's Melinda May."

Hill looked perfectly smug, while Clint whistled and took another turn, cutting off a yellow cab and leaving a stream of profanity trailing them.

"Nice, but I've still got her beat."

Hill shot him a curious look, too curious. Natasha laughed in the background, but whether that was at Clint's ability to corner himself or at the smoke jumping high in the sky, Clint wasn't sure.

"With who? One of the Avengers?"

Clint bit his tongue and met Coulson's eyes in the mirror, eyes which for once gave him no clues. Clint took a deep breathe.

"Well, if you must know—"

The explosion rocked him back in his seat, and although it was only close to the van, not in it, Clint swore he could feel the flames licking at his face. He took a hard right, and he wasn't surprised the hear the crack of return gunfire from every able gun in the car. That, he figured, was his cue to stop, and he pulled the black van just barely out of the range of the enemy's grenade launcher and hopped out, bow drawn and feet hot on Natasha's heels.

He kept one eye peeled for any sign of their successful terrorist, and he needn't have bothered; all he had to do was follow the maniacal laughter, and he said as much to Natasha's back. She didn't wait for any further directions from him before she disappeared into the shadows, and Clint jumped up towards the nearest fire escape, catching it on the third try. The wobbly metal frame wasn't the best vantage point when there were explosions, but it was quick and good enough. Three-quarters up the side of the building, Clint got his first sighting of the terrorist, ghostly pale and looking far too young for the sort of manpower and firepower he had stashed away.

"Got him, sir," Clint said into his headset. Hill answered.

"Coulson went out the back to help Romanoff, and it's ma'am." She sounded amused. "Take the shot, Barton, and as long as _you_ don't get shot, you might still make your hot date."

"Jinxing me, ma'am," Clint said, right as he let the arrow fly.

It hit the target, exactly as planned, and everything went wrong. If Clint hadn't ducked instinctively at the concussive blast, he wouldn't have had a head left on his shoulders, and the knowledge made him pop back up, into the heat and smoke. Where Timmy the Discount Terrorist had been standing, there was only a small crater, not big enough to have caused the blast of flames and shrapnel that had come flying in his direction.

"What the hell, Hill?"

"Decoy," she said shortly, and Clint could hear the sounds of typing interspersed with fast and flurried clicks against a screen. "Shit. Barton, get down from there—"

The third explosion cut off the rest of her sentence, but Clint didn't need to be told twice. The metal grate underneath his feet nearly buckled as he moved, the entire structure swaying like a drunken acrobat, and Clint looked down, several stories, to the ground.

Trusting his trick arrow for only the second time in his life, he jumped.

It held fast in the side of the brick building, landing him straight and safe into a full dumpster. Clint, covered in garbage but uninjured, flipped off the sky.

****

The rest of the battle was uneventful on Clint's end, because it took Hill all of four minutes to figure out that the explosions were pinpointing _him_ , and she proceeded to pull him back into the van, then kick him out of the van when she realized he wasn't exactly the best smelling of companions. Clint watched most of the battle, further explosions and a light show, from a safe few blocks away, all the while trying to refrain from sulking.

When Coulson and Natasha came back, covered in ash and with miscellaneous rips and tears, Clint was both relieved and surprisingly jealous.

Then they got within ten feet of him and wrinkled their noses, and Clint held up his hands in defense.

"Landed in a dumpster. Give a guy a break."

Coulson had a politely sympathetic expression on his face, but Natasha edged a little further away. Clint tossed a bit of trash from his hair at her, and it landed with a disgusting splat on the ground.

Coulson shook his head and banged twice on the van door. Hill opened it a crack, as if she thought Clint might come darting in at any moment, and Clint rolled his eyes.

"Maria, Barton and I are signing off for the night." Hill looked surprised, but Coulson explained. "He needs a shower, and I have a hot date."

The expression on Hill's face was almost worth the fact that it was nearly midnight and Clint had garbage in his hair and three broken arrows. Almost.

The expression on Coulson's face _was_ worth it, however, and Clint didn't even worry about what Natasha was getting from the exchange. When Coulson left, he followed, keeping pace easily as they walked in the opposite direction of the rubble. Clint didn't know where they were going, and he didn't much care. 

When they were a suitable distance away, Clint leaned a little closer than strictly necessary. Coulson didn't seem to mind, even with the smell.

"No offense, Phil, but you could do with a shower of your own."

Phil smiled, and it looked fractionally more brilliant than usual when under the grime.

"That would be my hot date: with a shower." Clint's face fell, and Phil chuckled. "Clint, I'm joking. But if you want, you can use mine—I only live a few blocks from here."

"That so?" Phil nodded, and Clint couldn't help but get his hopes up. "Then dinner?"

Phil wordlessly held out one hand. It took Clint a moment, but when he realized the implications, he excitedly laced their fingers together, uncaring of the filth between them, or of the fact that they were two grown men walking home in the early morning, holding hands. It was several minutes of perfection, and Clint could almost pretend that he didn't feel giddy.

Phil's apartment was in Lower Manhattan, in the sort of area that Clint wouldn't have been able to afford for long even if he'd pinched his pennies. It didn't look like somewhere Phil would live—there was a _doorman_ working in the middle of the night, for God's sake—but maybe that was the point. Maybe all of Phil's neighbors looked at him and saw just another rich man, just another suit, and they didn't ask questions or pay attention beyond that.

Of course, Clint's presence was probably blowing the entire cover story out of the water. Between tracking garbage all over the expensive tile in the lobby and crowding up the elevator with his stink, he was pretty sure he was difficult to miss. If anyone in the entire building was both awake and an Avengers fan, he was also sure to be recognized on sight, and Clint could imagine the story that would come from _that_. Hawkeye on the take. Hawkeye's side job. Hawkeye's sugar daddy.

It was hilarious, and when they stepped out of the elevator, Clint was trying his best to hold in his chuckle. Phil looked completely blank until he unlocked his door and stepped inside, and then the corners of his mouth ticked up.

"What's so funny?" he asked, as he slid the deadbolt home.

"Just wondering what your neighbors make of mild-mannered Phil Coulson bringing a superhero home."

"That I have good taste, most likely." Clint choked on his laughter, and was rewarded with a full smile. "The bathroom's the first door on the right, towels are in the cabinet. Just throw your clothes in the hamper."

Clint waved an acknowledgement and headed down the short hallway, finding the bathroom immediately. Like the rest of the apartment, it was clean and spacious, but other than that, Clint didn't pay his surroundings much attention, too busy trying to remove each article of clothing without generating a huge mess. It was an impossible task, and in the end, he gave up with a sigh, tossed the clothes in the wicker basket in the corner, and stepped into the shower. The water was hot but the soap smelled strong and generic, the first hint that Phil didn't live the luxurious lifestyle the apartment implied.

Clint washed carefully, letting the steam rinse away every slimy unknown and concern he had. When he stepped out of the shower and onto a fluffy rug, he felt more content than he had in a long time. He wrapped a towel carefully around his waist and edged back the way he'd come, not surprised to find Phil no longer in the entryway. He heard the sounds of activity in a room to his left, and he turned the corner to find Phil reheating leftover pizza with dirt still in his hair and on his clothes. His suit coat had been hung across a chair with all the care of someone too stubborn to call it ruined, and Clint couldn't help the grin.

"Don't get all domestic on my account." Phil chuckled and turned, handing him a plate. His eyes were firmly fixed on Clint's chest, and it took Clint a moment to realize that his hair was still dripping, and that Phil was watching the water slide down his skin. Once he realized, he hurriedly took a bite of his pizza; he could barely taste it. "Shower's all yours," he said, mouth full, and Phil nodded once and slipped by him.

The sound of the shower all but echoed through the apartment, and Clint wondered if it was wrong that all he could think about was water hitting bare tiles and bare skin. He wasn't entirely sure, but he tried his best to finish his pizza with limited thoughts in that direction, and limited glances at his surroundings. It was hard, though, when all he wanted was his mouth elsewhere.

Those five minutes might have been the longest of Clint's life, but the waiting was worth it when Phil stepped out of the bathroom, towel in his hair, and smiled at him. Even in ratty clothes and with his hair slicked off to the wrong side, even in a room that looked like it had been bought straight out of a catalog, he still looked like Clint's idea of a dream come true.

"You didn't even look around," Phil remarked, and Clint shrugged like it wasn't because his feet had felt frozen to the floor.

"You said to ask you if I had any questions."

"I did," Phil said, and he looked so pleased that Clint stopped resisting, moving forward in quick steps until he could tangle his fingers loosely in Phil's collar. Phil licked his lips, and when Clint leaned forward to kiss him, Phil dropped his towel to the ground and returned the kiss.

****

Phil's lips felt cool from the shower, the _cold_ shower he must have taken, and Clint couldn't stop himself from chasing the water droplets. They tasted sweet on his tongue, faintly like soap and faintly like Phil, and it made it all the better when his lips parted, coaxing him inside with a gentle sucking motion that made Clint stand up straight. When Phil dug his fingers hard into his bare shoulder, Clint gave a shudder, his fingers tightening instinctively on Phil and on the towel he held for dear life, only for Phil to pull away with a groan. 

Clint wasn't sure what noise he made then although he was sure it was pitiful, and Phil huffed out a soft laugh, still close enough for his breath to brush Clint's lips.

"Sorry," he said, voice husky. "I want to. I'd love to. But I'm expecting Evie tomorrow morning…" He trailed off, as if realizing the excuse sounded strange. "They think I'm an accountant, so I help her with her math homework sometimes."

The explanation both helped and didn't, and Clint leaned down and bumped his forehead lightly against Phil's shoulder. Phil's hand slipped a little on his damp skin, catching under his shoulder blade, and Clint nearly lost his towel.

"I can sneak out. I'm great at sneaking out. Even in dirty clothes."

Phil laughed again, a warm rumble that Clint felt all the way down his body.

"I think you're a little old to be doing the walk of shame, Clint."

"What walk? I was going to use the window."

Phil gave an indelicate snort that startled a laugh out of Clint.

"Oh hell." He pressed his lips to the corner of Clint's mouth, following laughter and chasing the curve of his lips. "They never show up before eleven anyway."

Clint took that as the permission it was and turned his head, catching Phil's lips with teeth and tongue. He was close enough to feel Phil's heartbeat speed up, the rapid pulse matching his own, and Clint felt unsteady on his feet. His hand returned to Phil's shirt, fingertips brushing the bare skin at his neck before sliding down his chest. The muscles under his hands were firm but gave way to the softness of age and slight inactivity that Clint had always longed to touch. Clint must have given himself away, because Phil pressed closer, kissing deeper, and the hand that wasn't trapped on the planes of his shoulder gave a sharp tug at his towel.

"Hey, no fair," Clint said in between kisses, a token protest that meant nothing when he dropped the towel himself immediately afterwards. Phil didn't seem to care whether or not he was playing fair, and his fingers slid across Clint's thighs before shamelessly cupping him in one hand. Clint shuddered, and he slid his hand down further to pat the hem of Phil's shirt.

"Not in the living room," Phil said, and Clint would have found that a little contradictory if he'd had the brain power necessary to think. As it was, Clint obligingly let himself be steered backwards, through the hallway and to the left. His back hit the bedroom door and they separated enough to get it open before Phil pulled off his shirt, revealing a variety of scars no accountant should have reasonably had. One right over his heart was particularly large and jagged, and it always made Clint's blood run just a little cold to think of it.

He laid his hand over it now, and the expression on Phil's face said he understood. When the touch turned into a caress, however, his eyes slipped closed, relief and pleasure visible on his face. Clint was content to touch just for a while, letting his fingers learn the texture of skin sprinkled with light chest hair, but there was only so much curiosity could do for the rush of blood in his veins. By the time Phil opened his eyes again, Clint was ready to pounce, and when Phil's hands slid his pants of his hips, Clint could barely contain a whimper at the first sight of his cock, hard and glorious and beautiful against his thighs. It made Clint's mouth water, and the urge to sink to his knees was almost overwhelming.

Phil touched his jaw, gently, and there was amusement lingering in his eyes when he visibly maneuvered Clint's head so he would look _up_.

"My eyes are up here," he said, voice thick, and Clint laughed.

"Your eyes are amazing, but I have to touch you, Phil. I _have_ to." It was a life or death need, like hunger or thirst or keeping all of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s secrets, and Clint felt his fingers twitch in reflex. Phil released him with a last caress to his face, but when Clint made to move down, Phil stopped him with a hand to his shoulder.

"Wait," he said, and he moved to the right side of the bed, to the nightstand. Clint cast the barest interested glance at the bedroom around him—large bed, dresser, closet, window—but Phil came back before he could absorb much else, lube in one hand and condoms in the other. 

"I wondered how you'd feel inside me." Phil licked his lips and swallowed visibly. "If you don't mind."

Clint didn't have the words to say how much he _didn't mind_ , and so he held out one hand for the supplies. He tossed the condoms on the bed and rolled the tube of lube between both hands to warm it, and Phil watched him. When Clint gestured silently to the bed, Phil calmly lay down on his stomach with legs spread.

Clint swallowed, and the sound of the cap opening was loud in the silence. The lube he poured over his hands was slick and still slightly cool, but if he'd expected Phil to flinch at the first touch, he was wrong. Clint's first finger went inside him easily, an easy glide that seemed too good to be true.

"You'd wondered, huh?" Clint asked quietly, and Phil nodded, breaths coming faster with each smooth thrust as Clint worked him open.

"More than you know," he said, sounding entirely sincere rather than like he was humoring him in the moment. Clint was curious, but it wasn't enough to distract him from the heat of Phil's body or the clench of him around his fingers. It was too much. It wasn't enough.

Phil's hand came around, touched him on the arm, and Clint took the hint, pulling his fingers from him with a slick sound. He gave one soft touch to Phil's balls, to the base of his cock, and then he was crouched on his knees behind him and tearing the condom open.

Clint nudged at him gently, running a hand along the length of his spine, because Phil would always be his favorite person, his first person, and because he was nervous like he hadn't been even during his first time. Phil made an indistinct noise when Clint pushed forward, probably too gentle and too slow, and Phil met him halfway, arching back with the sweetest moan Clint had ever heard. Clint thrust instinctively, and when his hands fell to the blankets, the better to anchor himself, Phil's hands covered his.

That, more than the heat or the tightness or the knowledge of being here with Phil, caused him to lose himself, and his measured actions became erratic. When Phil gripped his hands hard enough to hurt, Clint shuddered, letting himself ride closer to the edge with every snap of his hips, with every time Phil pushed back for him. Eventually his hands found a place on the soft weight of Phil's sides, just above the line of his hips, and he gripped him hard enough to bruise. Phil was undeterred, even encouraged, and when Clint finally tumbled over that hill, careening out of control, he had just enough forethought to make sure Phil came with him.

Afterwards, when Clint tossed the condom aside and stood at the side of the bed, he hesitated. It wasn't very noticeable, but with Phil lying there lax and boneless, Clint wasn't sure what to do. If he should go.

He made to do just that, somehow, but Phil's arm shot out, his reflexes sharp as always. All the same, his grip was gentle.

"Stay," Phil said, voice as soft as his hand on Clint's arm. Clint swallowed, because this? This was his dream come true.

"Sure," he said, like it didn't mean the world to him, like he hadn't expected to be kicked out on his ass in the aftermath. Phil wouldn't do that, and he should have guessed. "Let me just get the light."

He did, and he returned immediately to the bed, and to Phil's waiting arms.

****

Clint's first thought when he was woken from his warm and sexy bed by furious knocking on the front door was that Evie must have shown up before eleven. Judging by the way Phil immediately stiffened before reaching clumsily for the alarm clock at his bedside, the assumption was completely right.

Clint watched his expression go from tired to surprised to accepting in less than a second, and when Phil rolled back towards him, Clint had what he hoped was a pleasant smile on his face.

"I can still sneak out," he offered, and Phil snorted, rubbing a hand over his eyes. 

"Don't be ridiculous," he said. The clock, when he set it down, read just a little after nine, and Clint wondered who had decided that was a good time to be doing _homework._

Clint shrugged as if Phil's answer didn't matter to him in the slightest, an effort that he was sure was completely transparent. He stretched his arms above his head while Phil hurriedly untangled himself from the covers, bare ass disappearing behind a hastily donned robe. The knocking continued on, and Clint resisted the urge to go out the window anyway.

"Okay. I'll just stay here then."

Phil gave him a grateful look over his shoulder as he pulled on the previous night's discarded sweat pants, and Clint barely had time for a smile in return before Phil disappeared out the bedroom door, leaving him with click of the door latch. The knocking stopped almost instantly but was followed by the cadence of familiar voices, and Clint flopped back down on the Phil-scented pillows with a huff.

It wasn't the best morning-after. Not the worst, either, but definitely not the best. Clint let the silence wash over him, blinking bleary eyes at the sunlight behind closed curtains. The bed was still warm but lonely, and he went back to sleep, dozing fitfully with his face buried in the pillows. Deep sleep didn't come to him and he woke up just over an hour later, his eyelids feeling like sandpaper and his body interested in exactly the sort of rigorous morning exercise he wasn't going to get. It was enough to make Clint grumpy and overly curious, and with one last attempt at snuggling into the covers, he gave up and edged out of the bed on light feet. 

He felt strange borrowing Phil's clothes, but he'd feel even stranger walking around naked with a kid in the place. As a last resort, he wrapped himself in the classic sheet toga before he crept towards the door. He turned the knob gently, thankful for the lack of sound, and when he edged out of the doorway, he found the living room empty. He weighed his options, and despite his better judgment, he followed the politely soft voices to the kitchen and peeked his head just around the corner.

What he saw was like a scene out of a Christmas card, both Phil and Evie hunched over a book at the kitchen table and talking animatedly, sunlight streaming in the single window. Despite Phil's claims, it didn't look like any math discussion Clint had ever seen, and he nearly gave himself away when Evie tilted the book just right. It was a _comic book_. A Hawkeye one, if Clint didn't miss his guess, and he never missed.

"A new issue! Isn't it great, Uncle Phil?" Evie said, voice gushing. She still looked pale and frail, but she also looked like a kid, in kid's clothes with brightly colored sneakers. Clint felt a surge of warmth that he couldn't entirely suppress, and he held the sheet tighter to his chest. "I think I'll see if I can get him to sign it. Do you think he'll come to the hospital again?"

"Maybe," Phil said, and there was pure fondness in his voice. "It never hurts to bring it to your check-up, just in case."

"Do you bring your Captain America cards with you?"

"Always," he said, which Clint knew was a bold-faced lie, but one based in good reason. Evie looked cheered by the notion, however, and Clint couldn't entirely blame him for the small falsehood.

"Will you go with me?" There was something small in her voice, and Clint felt bad for eavesdropping for possibly the first time in his life. He started backing away. "If Dad can't, I mean. I hate blood tests."

"Of course." It was said in Phil's serious voice, the voice that made a promise he would never break, and Clint felt warm for an entirely different reason.

Of course, no sooner had he had the thought than his foot landed wrong, discovering a heretofore unknown creak on one of the living room floorboards. All sounds from the kitchen stopped.

"Is there someone there?" asked Evie, sounding curious but thankfully not heading in to investigate. Clint held his breath.

"Yes," Phil said, without hesitation. "But I'll introduce you to him later. He's a little ill-tempered in the mornings."

Clint backed up faster, giving up the pretense of silence, and he heard Evie's squeal just before he shut the bedroom door. His face felt warm, and he knew why—him, a master spy, defeated by a creaky floorboard. Phil would never let him live it down. Phil would probably never let him live down the eavesdropping either.

Phil wanted to introduce him to his niece one day. Not Hawkeye. _Him._

It was a little overwhelming, and Clint rolled himself back up in his sheet and flopped on the bed. This time, he tried hard to block out the noise of secondhand conversation, and he succeeded. Mostly. He heard the sounds of their goodbyes clearly enough, however, despite his best efforts, and when Phil came back into the bedroom just after eleven, Clint was waiting for him.

"I am _not_ grouchy in the mornings," Clint said, sounding grouchy. Phil smiled at him as he shucked his robe, and Clint was a little distracted.

"Of course not."

"And that wasn't math."

"Not entirely. You did come in at the tail end, however." Phil pushed him gently in the shoulder, and Clint obligingly scooted over to one side. "If you want to know the finer points of algebra, though, you can tell me."

"Oh sure. I'll just join your next lesson, right?"

Phil chuckled softly and lay back down, and Clint immediately rolled over, throwing an arm across his waist. Phil hummed in perfect contentment as Clint's fingers skimmed his ribs, sides twitching minutely with suppressed reaction. This, Clint decided, was a significantly better morning-after, and he could already feel lost sleep catching up with him.

"So, is that what you do?" Clint asked, voice tired. "Get together and be super fans? You with your Captain America things, her with her Hawkeye stuff?"

"Not quite," Phil said, and he nuzzled at Clint's ear, arm sliding across his shoulders in a half-hearted attempt. Clint's lips twitched, but he didn't have the energy for much more than that.

"What else?"

He felt Phil smile against his cheek.

"A lot of things. You see, I'm also a Hawkeye fan. Always have been." The words were said with a seriousness that seemed out of place, and Clint opened his eyes. Phil was looking at him with uncertainty, as if he'd admitted a secret that he wasn't sure would be well received. Clint felt it sink in, and he realized that maybe he thought that was exactly the case.

It didn't matter, and Clint felt himself smile as he closed his eyes.

"That's good. 'Cause I'm a Phil Coulson fan."

The arm across his shoulders tightened in the silence, and they drifted off to sleep, still wrapped around one another.

****

The End

**Author's Note:**

> This work fulfills "pining" on my Trope Bingo Card (unfortunately, not in time to actually make a bingo.)
> 
> Thanks for reading everyone!


End file.
